


routine

by mistycodec



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistycodec/pseuds/mistycodec
Summary: In which the Stans are extremely dysfunctional. An unhappy, perhaps loveless end. Your mileage may vary.





	routine

Ford is the first one to break.

It happens around three in the morning. It’s been storming constantly since the afternoon and neither brother could sleep. The power was out, which meant the TV was out and therefore distracting themselves with popcorn and a bad movie was also out of the question. Ford suggested, in bed, as Stan idly stroked a hand up and down Ford’s naked arm, that perhaps they should try and get some sleep, as was the customary thing to do at night during an unsettling storm.

_Sleep is for the weak, Sixer_ , Stan reminds his brother as his hands trail south to cup Ford’s balls, rolling them around in his hand and waits until Ford moves to roll over, bracketing Stan’s body with warm, hairy limbs.

The act itself is hot, feverish, moves with the frantic pace of raindrops hammering the windowpanes of Stan’s bedroom. Stan clutches at the sheets beneath him with bone-bleached knuckles because Ford would never forgive him if he clutched at his back instead, raking blunt nails down marred tan skin. Lightning cracks the sky, illuminating the room in a bright flash of light and Stan warns Ford that he is close, the first words either have spoken to each other for the past twenty minutes. Ford simply nods his assent, tries in vain to conceal a shuddering exhale of breath before quickening the pace.

Another flash of light, a peal of thunder and Ford stills inside his brother, seems to choke on the very air around him before collapsing, burying his face into the crook of Stan’s neck and lets out a deep-sated sigh.

“God,” he whispers. His lips twist into a lopsided smile, his brow damp with sweat that he wipes away in soft nudges on the bruised skin of Stan’s neck. “God, I love you.”

They both freeze and Ford immediately realizes the gravity of what he’s said, his grin melting off his face and morphing into an expression of pure horror. “Stanley, I-I didn’t mean—”

Stan is already pushing Ford off his body and wiping away the cum streaked across his stomach with the edge of the sheets. Ford lays a hand on Stan’s arm, a feeble attempt to keep Stan in bed, but Stan shakes his brother off and steps out of bed. Ford reaches out again. “Stanley, _please_ ,” he pleads with his brother. _Don’t leave_ , he doesn’t say. _Don’t walk out like this_.

Words have been said that cannot be unspoken. Stan pads out of the room without a word as Ford looks on helplessly before burying his face in his hands.

* * *

Ford finds Stan, eventually. He’s sitting naked on the couch on the back porch, the soft glow of a cigarette butt between his fingers. Stan takes a slow drag before flicking the butt away into the shadows of the yard and he blows out the smoke. It travels in wispy curls before dissipating into the hot summer night air. Ironically, the storm has finally abated, and water drips from the gutters and onto the steps leading down into the yard. Fog looms on the edges of the forest.

Ford moves to sit beside him and Stan holds up a hand, stopping Ford in his tracks. So Ford waits instead for Stan to speak, which takes at least two more cigarettes until he is ready. Ford rubs his arms nervously, the tension in the air so palpably thick he’s sure both their glasses are fogged from sheer humidity.

Stan scrubs a tired hand down his face and lets out a groan. “See, you had ta go an’ make shit weird for the both of us,” he says. He looks down at the deck and not at Ford, never at Ford, when he says these things. To stare his brother in the face is something Stan cannot, will not, muster the courage to do. “Why’d you have ta go an’ make it weird?”

* * *

 

They don’t speak to one another until Ford breaks the silence over breakfast. He’s leaning against the counter, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee as Stan eats a plate of pancakes he’s cooked for himself. There’s extras for Ford sitting on the opposite end of the table but Ford hasn’t touched them, perhaps out of spite or sheer stubbornness.

“I’m sorry I made things… _weird_ for you,” Ford says finally, setting his mug down on the counter with a loud _clink_.

Stan nearly chokes on his orange juice and has to pat his chest as the liquid slowly makes its way down his throat. Alright, so Ford was going _there_ already. It’s too fuckin’ early for this shit, Stan thinks, and he sets the glass down with shaky hands. Why are his hands shaky all of a sudden?

“Stanford, you know better’n me that we can’t say shit like that,” he warns, making it plainly obvious this was _not_ a conversation he was ready to have before he’d even finished his pancakes. “I mean we’re–”

“I fully understand what we are and what we are not, Stanley,” Ford interrupts, forcing Stan into an awkward silence. Stan’s eyes flick downward and notice the Ford’s hands are shaky too. Ford catches him looking and quickly clasps them behind his back and clears his throat. “It-it was a lapse in judgement, one I fully regret. I admit I was not thinking straight, a-and it means nothing to me.”

“Nothing?” Stan asks. He rubs his chin and thinks on that for a while as Ford continues to stare him down from the counter. _I love you_ the Ford from the night before speaks, eyes crinkled and mouth curled into an honest smile. Stan frowns and rubs his eyes, trying to chase the image out of his mind. God, if Ford hadn’t been so fucking _open_ when he said that, if Stan hadn’t looked up and seen that dopey smile that caused something deep inside him to seize up—

“Correct, absolutely nothing,” Ford repeats.

There’s an easy finality to Ford’s words, one that firmly states there’s no room for leeway. No arguments, no takebacks. Stan nods like he’s trying to convince himself of something and pushes his chair away from the table, leaving his dishes untouched. “Okay,” he says, looking up to meet Ford’s eyes. “It’s sorted then.”

* * *

It’s nearly two weeks later they end up in bed together, when Ford draws back the sheets and lays down on Stan’s sagging mattress. He wordlessly scoots closer to Stan, slides down the worn fabric of Stan’s boxers until the milky curve of Stan’s ass is exposed to the night air, then presses his cock deep inside his brother. Stan shudders at the feel of it, the indescribably fullness as Ford curls himself against Stan’s back, laying the broad palms of his hands against the round swell of Stan’s stomach.

Stan grunts. “Coulda warned me, jackass.”

“No,” Ford says simply. “I could not.”

A hand migrates to rest on Stan’s cheek, then his lips. It’s a dance Stan knows by heart now, one Ford expects him to follow without deviation. Ford waits for the mouth beneath him to part, for the telltale hot puff of breath and the wet feel of lips wrapping around his fingers before drawing them in deeply.

But Stan has never been a fan of routine.

Nervously, he presses his lips against Ford’s fingers, sliding his eyes shut tight as he kisses Ford languidly. The first kiss is hesitant and shaky, and he pauses for one long heartbeat of a moment to see if Ford pulls away. Ford’s hand, then, curls tighter, perhaps possessively so, around his stomach. An icy shiver runs down Stan’s spine; it’s not a tell Stan has seen before, and with trepidation he stops kissing Ford’s hand, draws away and licks his lips.

He could leave, now. Pull away from Ford’s arms and collect his clothes, pad slowly downstairs in the dark until he finds the den. There’ll be his armchair and a TV waiting for him. He could give this whole stupid thing up.

Ford parts Stan’s lips for him and slide two fingers into Stan’s mouth, followed by a chaste kiss to the back of Stan’s neck. It’s so quick Stan almost thinks he’s imagined it, but he can still feel Ford’s breath on his skin and his whole body tingles with excitement.

Then, Ford rolls his hips, and Stan splinters into pieces.


End file.
